


As You Shook in the Middle of the Night

by theatretechlesbian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Sleep Deprivation, im just soft for jon being carried, like super minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatretechlesbian/pseuds/theatretechlesbian
Summary: Just a little thing with a sleep deprived Jon and martin just vibingSet in some sort of nebulous point post 146 in s4
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 114





	As You Shook in the Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> title from The Amazing Devil song "Not Yet/Love Run Reprise"
> 
> did I binge the entirety of tma in like a week and a bit? yes.
> 
> Content Warning in the end notes

Jon was awoken by the sound of something slamming down onto his desk. His eyes darted around the room frantically, looking for any sign of an enemy. It took him a bewildered moment to realise it was his own head that had hit the wooden surface, slipping from where it had been propped up by a weak elbow.  
It was hardly waking up if he hadn't really been asleep, he supposed. His head hurt far too much to have actually dozed, the pain flowing intermittently in and out of his temples. It wasn't that he didn't want to be asleep, but after the complaint Martin had received and the horrified reactions of the others, he didn't exactly have much of an incentive. Rest never seemed to lessen the exhaustion he felt on a daily basis - only new, fresh statements even touched it. Jon figured he should at least try to lessen the pain on those he'd hurt, those he had compelled. What was a few nights without sleep to something as inhuman as himself anyway?

He glanced at the clock on the wall, ticking away with more stability than Jon's had at any point in his slightly turbulent life. It's one of those pendulum clocks, the ones that look like proper grandfather clocks but cut in two, abruptly stopping and hanging on the wall, baseless and floating far apart from anything else. It's been there since Jon moved into the office, and has always looked somewhat lonely on the wall, but what else would he put up? For a moment, he indulges himself and imagines a collage of photos. Tim and Sasha at a Christmas party, Georgie looking rough the morning after a uni bender, his grandmother looking stern as always, maybe even one of Jon and Mar-  
_No_ , he thought, _maybe not_.  
He scoffed. The thought of Martin brought Jon back to the real world. A world where Martin was currently squirreled away in a room far away from him, doing God knows what to appease Peter Lukas of all people. Jon knew that he had to trust him, had to trust that Martin knew what he was doing, but there was something about the whole situation that made Jon's rib cage tighten. He didn't know whether it was worry for Martin or the Eye's insistence that its Archivist knows everything, discovers everything. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Jon stood slowly from his desk, movements lethargic. He hadn't exactly been the most steady on his feet, currently operating on decades old statements and several days without sleep. His headache had also returned with a vengeance. He reached into his bag to exchange his now crumpled work shirt for something a bit warmer and maybe some painkillers, before realising that there was nothing that was even vaguely clean enough to wear, and the cheap packet of paracetamol was now very much empty.  
It was after several minutes of staring at his backpack with faint offence that Jon conceded, grabbing his car keys with a sigh. He would have to go home, for one night at least. The hour was late, but usually he would announce his departure to anyone still in the Archives, however the slight fog of sleeplessness was making him even less sociable than the norm. That, and he was pretty sure that Melanie would just tell him to fuck off anyway.  
Jon managed to take approximately three strong steps out of his office, briefcase of statements in hand, before his knees buckled, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor.

  
Martin's office didn't have a window, but the hallway outside did. What little natural light he received came from the corridor and through the reinforced glass in the door. And, currently, the only source of illumination anywhere near Martin was his cheap desk lamp. His eyes switched between the Extinction-themed statements on his desk and the badly done timetables on his computer screen. A couple of years ago, he would have been quite happy doing non-descript admin jobs like that, but these days everything seemed so much bigger. Every action seemed to have consequences beyond imagining, and that alone made deciding what times people should take their lunch break feel ant-like.  
He started to pack his papers up, tripping over the now unused electric heater sat on the floor against his desk. He had brought the thing in from home when he still thought that it was a lack of central heating keeping the office cold. He knew better now, having spent more than enough time in Peter's vicinity that it was the Lonely rather than a faulty pipe.  
He said goodnight to the tape recorder at the edge of his desk, one of many that he periodically removed and found again hours later. Its persistence was kind of sweet in a way. 

  
_Christ, Martin, you really are losing it, talking to a tape recorder_.

  
He left the room and proceeded down the stairs to the exit. Martin had begun to leave the Institute through the back exit these days, as it lessened the chance for any unwanted human interaction. It did mean, however, that he would walk past Jon's office.  
It was late and dark, so Jon probably wasn't even there, Martin reasoned as he descended the stairs. Even if he was there, he would most likely be wrapped up in a statement, and wouldn't even notice Martin passing. 

What Martin didn't expect was to see Jon lying face down on the solid wooden floor surrounded by slightly bloody statements, entirely still save for a slight rise and fall of his back - the only thing letting Martin know that he hadn't just dropped down dead.

In seconds, he was striding down the corridor and sunk to his knees. He turned Jon over gently, unable to stop a sharp intake of breath as he saw the blood oozing from Jon's forehead. It was streaked over his face, clumping in his eyelashes, and had stained the papers that had spilled out of Jon's worn briefcase, which had presumably sprung open as he fell.  
It was taking all of Martin's resolve to not panic and scream. He knew that the others had to be around somewhere, but it didn't seem like Jon had been here long. Turning him on his side so he didn't choke on his tongue, Martin chanced leaving the man alone, sprinting to the kitchenette to grab a wet cloth and the first aid kit. He returned to his place beside Jon and started to clean the blood from his face with as much care as he could. Martin's hands were shaking slightly, but the more blood he wiped off, the more he calmed down.  
Jon also didn't seem to be unconscious so much as....asleep? In fact, he looked more peaceful than Martin had seen him in months. The dark circles around his eyes were still far too prominent for anyone healthy, but his face was otherwise relaxed, and his tell-tale scowl and furrowed brow nowhere to be seen.

It was as the plaster was placed on his forehead that Jon began to stir. He backtracked through his blurry memory, because if he wasn't mistaken, he was currently lying on a cold hard floor, not in his car, and certainly not in his flat. Warm hands brushed his face lightly, and his headache from before seemed now concentrated in a single spot above his eyebrow. The hands moved away, and Jon felt a small pang of loss.  
With a slight grimace, he opened his eyes to see Martin rustling through the first aid kit. He was packing it all up, prompting Jon to gingerly press his fingers against his face. They came away wet, but with only a speck of blood, so he could only assume that Martin had...washed his face?

"You're awake then." It wasn't exactly the smoothest opener, but the sound of Martin's voice was a balm to an ache Jon didn't realise he had. Any words he had to respond didn't make it from his brain to his mouth, so instead Jon made a sort of incoherent grumble.   
Martin smiled briefly, but it fell from his face as soon as Jon tried to prop himself up and promptly failed. His arm slipped and his head hit the floor again with a light thud. He sighed and closed his eyes in resignation. Taking a moment, he can see why he fell asleep. The hardwood floor really is just _so_ comfortable.

"Would you like a hand sitting up?" Martin spoke softly, but it still jerked Jon out of whatever floorbound reverie he had been in. He nodded, still a bit dazed. Before he had really realised what was happening, Martin's hand was splayed across Jon's back and he was sitting up. The hand didn't move, and neither did Jon. They sat there, motionless and staring at each other wordlessly. 

Something had to give obviously, and that something ended up being Basira striding into the corridor. There was purpose in her walk as she came around the corner, but any intent she had seemed to drop away as she saw the duo. She exchanged a few words with Martin that Jon didn't quite catch, but soon he was being pulled to his feet, Martin's arm tucked around his waist. Whether he realised it or not, Martin was currently carrying most of Jon's weight. His feet were only lightly touching the floor, and he wasn't entirely sure he would continue to stay upright should Martin try to step away.

Unfortunately, that was apparently exactly what he intended to do. The arm had barely left his side before Jon crumpled, saved from any more injury only by Basira's quick reflexes. This did mean, however, that she was currently holding Jon up by his now rather fragile torso (taking two ribs out hardly improves your internal structure), and he winced in pain. She looked to Martin. Jon was sure they were talking, but there was nothing in his brain quite up to interpreting their words at the moment. He wondered briefly what part of your brain does that, taking the sounds you hear and turning them into words and meaning. At any other point the knowledge might have just popped into his head, as so many things did these days, but his vague mental search came up empty. He wondered if it was the same part that processed pain, turned it into something manageable for the rest of the neurons. His head ached fiercely, and so, he found as he thought of it, did the rest of his body. 

Jon was rather wrapped up in this train of thought, so it came as a bit of a surprise when the pressure on his ribs stopped, and his legs were swept from under him. He was being carried, and even his thoroughly addled and sleep deprived brain knew it wasn't Basira holding him. His mind absently supplied that this was the closest proximity he had with Martin since, well, ever.  
He felt weightless. His bones still ached, and his head was pounding, but Martin was warm, and he was there. After so many days, weeks, of not seeing him, talking to him, he was finally there. Something in Jon made him tilt his head at that thought, leaning into Martin's chest.   
He felt a slight vibration, and realised that Martin was talking, and when he opened his eyes, realised that Martin was talking to him.

"-m going to put you down now." Jon didn't really want to leave. He felt safe with Martin.  
All too soon though, he was being gently placed onto something soft, and covered with a blanket. His eyes had closed again at this point, no longer complete in his control. People were talking again, hushed tones and half whispers. He wasn't listening anymore.

Martin watched the confusion in Jon's face as he went from standing, to his arms, to the cot, and finally to sleep. Basira had left after opening the door for them, and Martin now sat alone, save for the sleeping Archivist.  
Somewhere in the back of his brain, there was a disapproving voice that sounded an awful lot like Peter Lukas. It's talking about setbacks, and the end of the world, and how to truly embrace The Lonely. But quite honestly, Martin couldn't really give a shit. It would take a lot more than Lukas' icy fog to make him give up this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> CW:  
> Mild injury - Jon falls and hits his head, getting a small cut  
> blood - the cut on jon's head bleeds, is visible on the surrounding papers
> 
> no extremely graphic descriptions of the wound or blood, however both are mentioned


End file.
